


Le petit boulot.

by dustiie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-07 21:19:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustiie/pseuds/dustiie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wasn't all that part of the pay? The reward? A kill for a minute of pain, for a minute of feeling something again? It wasn't that it made Moran confused--even though it did,-- the way nothing made him feel more terror, more excitement, more arousal, more adrenaline, than having the boss' dark eyes set on him from across his mahogany desk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is why I don't make bets.

There was nothing shittier than working for Mister Moriarty. No, seriously. Moran had had it all; he'd been through hell with an abusive father all of his youth days, he'd been enlisted in the army, deployed to Kabul, for fuck's sake, for over half a decade, and _yet_ nothing, _nothing_ was worse than working for Moriarty.

Don't get him wrong, it wasn't that he wasn't thankful--he was. Somewhat. The pay was great; he had enough for a decent apartment, fantastic weekends of which he remembered absolutely zip, whores, booze, smokes, all sorts of indulgences. He had it all. But still, he wasn't sure if it made up for the freezing bloody winter nights he spent on the roof of some building, not being able to even smoke a fucking cigarette in the cold darkness, feeling his balls shrunk down all the way up his own fucking body. He wasn't sure the pay made up for all the times he'd had to hop on some 11 hour flight to Las Vegas and be absolutely banned from even spending a cent on gambling, forced into some imbecilic monkey attire with a smuggled gun, and having to wait for some fucker to show up and place a ridiculous bet on the number 8 on roulette. (No gambling. Explicit orders from the boss. Fuck him up the fucking arsehole for it). He wasn't sure the pay made up for the vicious ways in which Moriarty treated him, or the way he called him over for nothing other than a bloody shag--and he means bloody.

 

But then again….

 

 

Wasn't all that part of the pay? The reward? A kill for a minute of pain, for a minute of _feeling_ something again? It wasn't that it made Moran confused--even though it did,-- the way nothing made him feel more terror, more excitement, more arousal, more adrenaline, than having the boss' dark eyes set on him from across his mahogany desk.

The way he wouldn't speak, but only stare back at Moran through his lashes, with his eyebrows slightly furrowed, as though he were bothered. As though he hadn't just called Moran in here himself. As though Moran had interrupted some kind of immensely important train of thought.

 

It always made Moran's skin crawl. It made it feel about eight sizes too small, suddenly. It made him antsy, being under Moriarty's scope like that, with those eyes scrutinising every last freckle on his skin, every pore, every hair, every bristle of his unevenly shaved jaw and chin. And the way Moriarty just wouldn't say _anything_ , taking the time to just stare at him until Moran's pulse was shooting through the roof. Moran had to force himself not to count the palpitations, not to draw conclusions from his own flustering and to hold still. Just hold still, like he'd always been used to.

 

And then, as per routine, Moriarty would stand, button the two perfect buttons on his suit's jacket, then smooth the front of it down with two flat palms from his chest in a downward motion. Moran couldn't help but lick his lips, because Moriarty wasn't looking at him anymore. He felt like some stupid mutt, eager for attention from a hand that will do nothing but beat it. Still, he craved it like he'd never craved anything in his life before, for Moriarty to look at him again, for Moriarty to stretch out his hand and touch him, for Moriarty to breathe the same fucking air as him, just to be closer, closer, until Moran could smell the cologne Moriarty always dabbed behind his own ears, from up close, to press his nose right to the tender spot--

 

Moran swallows audibly then. Because Moriarty is walking around him and out of the room through a door that he leaves open. And Moran knows that's his cue to follow, but his heart is absolutely batshit beating, and he stands there for one second, two seconds, three seconds, four, before he's scrambling to follow Moriarty, as though he'd whistled and called, 'heel.'

 

Every time, Moran tried to tell himself he wouldn't come when Moriarty called. That he was better than to crave the pale man's touch. Every time, Moran tried to talk himself into telling Moriarty to go fuck himself, and quit his jobs, pack his bags and get the fuck away to somewhere no one would ever find him.

Every single time, Moran fought himself right until the last second, trying to force himself to see sense, like grabbing a fucking mutt by the snout and pushing its nose into a bowl of food it doesn't want to eat. But the animal in him was greater, was darker, was bigger than any common sense Moran may have ever had.

Because the monster saw him, wanted him, had him, then tossed him aside.

The monster took what it wanted, what was his by right, and then demeaned it, humiliated it, destroyed every last shard of self that it may have had still left.

 

And Moran was always left feeling pathetic. Always left feeling worthless and unwanted and disgusting, so fucking disgusting. But for the brief minutes, sometimes hours, in which Moriarty's attention was solely on him, on the lines of his body, of the lines of Moriarty's blade and the marks it left on Moran's skin. For the weigh of Moriarty's dead eyes on him, of his searing lips and his--his--….

 

Moran didn't mind what he felt, in the aftermaths. Moran didn't mind how hollow, how helpless…

 

He didn't mind the way Moriarty buttoned his jacket, the way same way he had before, and without meeting his eye, without as much as looking at him, turned to go, leaving though an open door, for Moran to walk out through when he was done cleaning himself up.

 

Moran moved slowly, after, because every tiny shift of his body made all the wounds feel as though they were being opened all over again. Every bruise on his skin felt tender at the smallest of movements, every fucking step made the blood trickle down his skin. Sometimes, his thighs shook. Sometimes, though other times, he could hardly stand at all. Sometimes, it took him a total of fifteen minutes to be out of Moriarty's apartment. Other times, it took him two hours. Three hours. Four hours. Sometimes, he wouldn't stop bleeding, so he stood in the shower until he did. Sometimes, he woke up still on the floor, still a mess, still cold and alone and feeling so fucking abandoned.

Sometimes, Moriarty was in bed by the time Moran made it out through the doors. But never ever had he been allowed to join Moriarty there. No matter how badly sometimes he wanted to.

 

It's the spare bedroom. It's always the spare bedroom. And there are things neatly lined up over the duvet, for Moran to see. Moriarty is always taking off his jacket when Sebastian makes it through the threshold, and in here, Moriarty meets his eye again, as though uninterested, as he hangs his suit jacket on the stand. Then, he loosens his tie, black today, black to match the colour of his suit, the colour of his hair, the colour of his lashes and his eyes, but not from up close. Moran has seen him from up close.

 

Moriarty looks at him as his tie joins the jacket. Then he undoes his top two buttons, and Moran scrambles to slip out of his own clothes, now, stepping out of his shoes in a hurry, desperate all of the sudden, like an animal on heat. Thirsty, hungry, all of his skin crawling, and by the time Moran is out of his shirt, topless and hopping to get his socks off, Moriarty is reaching for his belt. His eyes ablaze, now, as though the overwhelming feeling of starvation is finally getting to him. Because he must feel it too…right?

But Moran would rather not think, that's why he comes here. That's why he takes whatever Moriarty is willing to fling his way, whatever scraps and leftovers he's kind enough to offer, whatever comfort he might provide.

 

Moran undoes his own belt, unbuttons his trousers and pulls down the zip. They fall to the ground with a rustle, pooling by his feet before he steps out of them, slowly. With trepidation, because he knows not to move now. Not to walk forward, not to initiate anything, because the door behind him is still open, and Moriarty has, before, short-circuited and sent him running, stark naked out into the street.

 

So Moran is still, watching Moriarty through furrowed brows, because his fucking heart won't calm down. It won--won't calm down, as Moriarty takes the first step to close the distance between them. Still, he hasn't said a word, and the skin behind Moran's ears burns. Slowly, he draws in a breath, rattling and stupid, like a fucking drooling animal. He swallows hard again, his cock starting to get heavy as he stands there in nothing but his pants, and Moriarty doesn't smile as he approaches.

 

And then--and then Moriarty's cold fingers touch down on the sides of his torso, lining up perfectly to the dips of his ribcage, and every time--every single time, Moran wonders if he does it on purpose, to keep--to try and keep his mind from reeling, from flashing up like neon signs the fact that he thinks he and his boss fit so perfectly against each other, the way their bodies line up perfectly, seamlessly.

 

Moriarty's digits are always cold. Always cold, when his hands tread down and under the hem of Moran's pants to yank him close until their hips are flush against one another's. Even then, Moran doesn't move. He doesn't move, because he knows better than to ask for a slap before he's earned one. He holds completely still, with his arms hanging limp by his side, until Moriarty's hot lips seal around a spotless place on his neck. Until they suck a harsh bruise, and Moran knows what colour it'll be; not purple, not brown nor yellow. Not yet. It'll be red and spotted, burst capillaries surfacing to the skin like more freckles on him. Then, there's teeth, biting, scraping down the tender flesh, and Mo-Moran can do little else but shiver as the chill trickles like ice water down his spine.

 

He doesn't move, until the magpie is singing words of praise to him. Or until he's sneering insults into his skin, blow after blow with the--slashing gash after gash with the knife--all the tools he's laid out plainly for Moran to see, for Moran to prepare, for Moran to know what's coming.

Moriarty doesn't always use them. But there's the sinking feeling in Moran's gut, that today, he will.

That's when the fingers turn to talons, scratching red lines across the skin of his arse, making him hiss as the criminal yanks Moran's hips to crash together with his own, bones clashing and mouths falling together with too many painful clinks of teeth and not enough lips, but too much tongue, and Moran is dizzy from the get-go.

 

His hands scrambling to wrap around the criminal's back, then back to his front as though desperate, to undo the rest of the buttons, one by one with stupidly trembling hands. To part the prim white fabric and expose more of that pale flesh, and Moriarty is lean, that stupid fucker is lean, even though he does nothing but sit at his desk and talk on the phone with that droning voice of his, dead, dead, so dead, and Moran is choking when Moriarty yanks at the hair on his nape.

 

"You've been a good tiger, Moran." And Moran can hardly hold the choked noise in. Relief washes over him; it's a reward, not a punishment, and Moran can breathe a little better again.

 

"Ye-ss, sir." Choked, hoarse and pathetic, his voice husks like a pre-pubescent teen. He's not embarrassed, because he doesn't have time to be, because Moriarty's hands are yanking down his pants, and Moran knows--knows that's permission for him to do the same. His hands are useless, at times like these, when he tries to part the opening of Moriarty's trousers, and his mind is reeling, racing, and his hands instead grope the curve of the man's arse, squeezing, lifting the man to his tiptoes with indelicacy.

 

Moriarty makes a noise, then, too short for Moran to memorise, but there and then, he knows he's alive. WIth his blood pumping frenetically through his veins, and Moriarty's skin against his own, his lips against his own, Moriarty's tongue down his throat, and Moran takes a step forward, into Moriarty and closer to the bed.


	2. Chapter 2

James understood his mood swings, sometimes. When he was alone at night, and gave himself time to think about things that weren't clients or world destruction, or the need deep in his skin for blood, hot and spurting, in puddles in which he could splash.

Sometimes, when he was alone, and staring at a ceiling that didn't conceal the stars above them, in patterns like the braincells, neurones and nerve endings in his body--and weren't they all just chemicals? Stardust. Everything was stardust, and James allowed himself to think.

Think about the things that were missing… Not like money, not like health, not like shelter or food. Moriarty had all the necessities. He had success, he had a sense of self, he was well respected, and most importantly, feared. But James didn't  have something as simple as a body to keep him warm at night. When he rustled under the sheets to curl onto his side, the other end of his King (named appropriately) bed was cold, the sheets ironed and pristine, because nobody ever slept on that side. Nobody had ever made it into this room, let alone sat down for long enough to crinkle them.

He didn't let it bother him, though, not usually. Not usually, but there were always those days, where the thoughts came relentless; over and over until his mind was dizzy with it, looping dark and dangerous. It was always relapse, from that point on. When he swore he wouldn't again, and held out until the bruises, the cuts, the broken bones had all healed. When he told himself he was a responsible employer, that he could get the excitement from anywhere else--like Jack the Ripper. He'd tried. God, he'd tried, so many times before. But there was nothing stopping him, those times. That was the problem. Nothing stopped him. Not from wrapping intestines around his neck, all thick with blood in globs, like an expensive scarf from a non-animal-rights-supporter brand name. Who the fuck cared if another whore got ripped to shreds; her insides sprawled on walls like grotesque cave paintings. No one gave a fuck. (And how appropriate the expression.) No one cared, and so no one stopped him, no one pursued him, no one tried to get back at him for his crime done. (No one was imbecilic enough to try and get back to him for the crimes he'd done, not even the Iceman. But that was all a different story.)

The problem wasn't that night. He always wound up smoking until his brain was foggy and his body lethargic, and it was always dawn long before he fell asleep. The problem was the morning after, and the day as it came. Slow, always slow and driving him up the wall, further and further with every unholy tick of the clock. He told himself no. He told himself he didn't have to. He was Jim Moriarty, for fuck's sake. He didn't need anything, let alone anyone. He ground his teeth, jaw clenched until the headache was blinding.

Even then, he succumbed. And the typed the words with hands too eager. And the minutes of waiting were endless, because the lack of it felt like a hole through his head, the need, the itch, like a weight on his chest, on his shoulders, snapping him in two. He told himself no, but his body always called louder.

Moran stood in front of him, stoic. Eyes set ahead, with no fear, no sign of apprehensiveness. Like a soldier. James hated the fact that he gave Moran that importance. The pleasure of feeling needed, of feeling wanted. James hated that he needed the fucking soldier to stand in front of him and take every blow, every cut and every kick, until James, once again, felt hollow. Empty, the way he liked to be. It helped him think, concentrate on the task at hand. It cleared his mind, being numb, and sometimes, the self-awareness got to him, shook him, until he was needy and volatile and explosive.

James had never liked connect-the-dots, until he'd realised he could link the freckles on Moran's skin with a pen knife, leaving thin cuts, deep enough to scar in slim white lines that no one would notice, no one would see, unless they looked at him as closely as James got to look at him. And no one ever would. Moran was his, his thing, he'd found him, he'd fixed him, he'd _made_ him what he was. It was all Moriarty. And for what reason? None, other than the way the colour of Moran's eyes was the colour of insanity. The colour that matched what Moriarty's insides felt like. Brewing like a storm, dangerous, erratic, fickle.

Moran stood in front of him, and James could only stare at him and hate him, because the bloody fucking animal had turned up. He'd turned up, like he didn't know what the fuck was coming, like he'd never stood where he stood now, before. Like he was a blind lamb, following the flock to where the shepherd called, and James was no shepherd. He was the slaughter house, the butcher with the knife in his hand, and _Moran knew this._ It frustrated James, because Moran knew this, and he chose to stand there, in front of him, with that soldier-like attitude, with his shoulders squared in a way that made James _hungry._ Hungry, because Moran knew better than to dangle a piece of meat in front of a starving wolf. He knew he'd get his arm mauled, and James could almost taste the cocky smile on the sniper's lips before he bit it between his own teeth, hard.

It was only a taste, a taste before the man begun pushing, trying to step Moriarty back onto the bed like he thought he was the boss of this fight. And that's what burnt Moriarty. That Moran'd never learn his place, no matter how many beatings he took, he was _stubborn_. And although stubbornness usually bored the criminal in record time, he'd never managed to get rid of Moran. Because, unlike the whores, someone would come demanding pay for the delicious man who stood in front of him. It'd be his own need, his own hunger, weeks down the line, when he himself realised he had nothing to play with anymore. Nothing to hurt and maim and twist into impossible lines, draw impossible sounds from. Moran was a play thing. One that demanded attention by withdrawing himself. Like, he, too, knew the methods. Giving into the criminal. Then backing away, making James crave him more, his resistance, his resilience, the feel of his hot flesh against Moriarty's cold hands. The temperature of his blood, when it was drawn, the colour, the way it flaked over freckles, when dry. It was a game. A game the two played too well, neither giving too much, nor too little. Then giving it all, until it hurt, until exhaustion, until surrender. Then, separation. Withdrawal, all symptoms of it. Sickness. Hunger. Need. Without the other, they both withered, and it was nothing but a game. Prides, egos, all too big to accept the reality of necessity. A game. And Moran always came back, to play some more, so he knew. He partook. He turned up, because he _wanted_ to.

He knew how to play. Moriarty, at times like these, was foolish enough to think the sniper needed it as much as he did. The distraction. The salvation, the rapture of complete ownership, of connections unimagined, and satisfaction. Oh, but that was an entire other chapter. Satisfaction. The way he'd have Moran's mouth wrapped tight, wet and hot around the length of his cock. Bobbing, up and down in messy, slow drags of puffed lips, raw and red.

Moran was one to drool all over himself when a knife was pressed at the right angle to his jugular. And Moriarty tricked himself into thinking he could feel the man's pulse sending minute vibrations through the blade, to his hand. Tricked himself into thinking he could feel it, not just in his head, but that it matched the pulsations of his bloody headache. The palpitations of his own rotten heart. 

It was all a whole load of rubbish, but Moriarty didn't care, not when Moran's animal roared louder than the monster in his chest, when the freckled hands roamed his still half-clad frame with hunger, with confidence, as though he tricked himself into thinking he owned the criminal as well. Into thinking either of them were capable of owning without destroying, when they both knew better. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered when mouths clashed and teeth clinked in sharp pangs of pain, of arousal; weren't they both the same, when it came down to it? All the chemicals exploding like bright lights in his body, setting him ablaze at the touch of rough, calloused digits. At the feel of his own body, moving on its own accord, knowing when to push and when to pull, when to shove and grab and scratch and pinch, all to make the sniper hiss a symphony of noises Moriarty wished he could memorise, instead of remembering every atomic number in the periodic table.

His brain was occupied by useless information, but Moran managed to empty up a little space, enough to let Moriarty feel like one day, perhaps, if he tried hard enough, alone in his room, he'd be able to recall perfectly the sounds the sniper made, the way in which his body rolled, the taste of his sweat when it beaded at his top lip, over his pecks, down the slope of his spine, or the dips of his abdomen, the dimples at the small of his back.

Then, maybe, James would be able to kill him for real, instead of just bringing him to the edge. Then, he'd be able to end his relapses, worse than any addiction, because there was no rehabilitation for this, not for Moran, and James knew, until the man was gone, James'd never get better. Would never _want_ to get better.

So he left him to his games, let the man push him back until the frame of the bed hit the back of his calves, but not a millimetre further. Because he wanted to hover there, at the edge, for another minute or ten. Because the anticipation built a bigger wave than anything else ever could, the images his brain provided, reeling, debauched, obscene and crass, of bright red colours and parted lips. Bitten lips. Raw lips, glossy, slick with nefarious substances. Eyes squeezed shut and blond eyebrows knitted. Eyelashes long and spluttered, and the heat of Moran's tongue in his mouth, the taste, the smell of his skin. It sent Moriarty straight to overdrive. To where the thoughts were no longer thoughts, but colours bursting and energy spasming. Body taking over, and his mind shutting down, but for the thoughts he needed to have to get through this. The ideas would come to him, at the stimulus that was Sebastian Moran. For now, Moriarty hovered, still in his trousers, though those rode low down the curve of his arse. Shirt tugged off, but for the noises of frustration Moran made when he realised the daft animal had forgotten to undo James' cuff buttons, and the fabric clung to his wrists.

James knew what would happen next, but the sound of the buttons popping never ceased to thrill him, to shake him. "Calvin Klein, you imbecile." Was all that Moriarty could snarl, and Moran got a hand to the throat, talon-like fingers, nails digging into skin. Moriarty wasn't really angry. But Moran wanted to play a game, and Moriarty followed blindly. He couldn't give two shits about a Calvin Klein button down (Spring/Summer 2010 Collection, Oyster, not white.) Choked, Moran wheezed, and his eyes were more fire than James could ever handle.

"You'll forget about it if it's my cock you want." And there was a difference between burning, and _boiling_. Because the tone of Moran's voice, husky and low, burnt like fire trickling down Moriarty's spine; coals and embers scorching his skin, at the back of his neck, behind his ears, over his chest. But his blood, it boiled. And Moran got what he earned, when he doubled over the criminal, his chin smacking down on Moriarty's shoulder with a loud thud and a click of his teeth slamming together. His hands came off Moriarty's skin to clutch at his stomach, then he began wheezing. Moriarty withdrew his fist, then, from knocking the wind out of the tiger. 

"Didn't Daddy teach you not to be insolent, you mongrel?"

"No, sir," Moran wheezed, in those hushed tones of his. Voice reverent, but words oh-so-dangerous. Cocky, is what the little fuck was, and James loved nothing but the stinging taste of those words upon his tongue. The tiger was doubled over, clutching his stomach, but looking up at James with that insatiable glint to his eyes. That smirk on his lips. "Daddy taught me how to suck cock and earn a good fuck, sir."

Burning. Though his hand clung like a bear trap to the back of Moran's neck, yanking him upright by the fine strands of hair at his nape. Hunger. With a sharp shove, the former Colonel's body went easy, down onto the mattress with an airy oof. Need. Climbing atop him, to straddle his hips, tugging the shirt the rest of the way off. The fabric of his trousers now tugging in awkward angles at his knees, too tight. His crotch, though, settled over Moran's own, knowing there'd be an unbearable heat there, one he couldn't yet feel. Separated by too many layers, still, and with breaths coming heavy, panting, laboured. Moran's chest heaving. And there, Moriarty's lips crashed down agaist Moran's once again.


	3. Chapter 3

Sebastian knew there was something beyond the usual attraction, when it came to them.

 

He knew that the fire they built was more than just the spark he felt whenever he looked at a bottle blonde with her tits popping out of her shirt pass him by. The asphyxiation wasn’t the same as when he had her against the nearest public bathroom counter, his hand fisted into those white strands and yanking her head back into an impossible angle as she moaned like a whore, her voice echoing against the ceramics, the sound magnifying with each thrust, louder, louder, harder, faster. Their breaths, steaming the mirror, it wasn’t the same.

Squeezing her tits between his hands, feeling her throw her head back against his shoulder, hearing her whine into his ear, making his cock so much harder, his balls so much tighter, his breath so much more strained.

 

Shagging a red head senseless into the mattress of a cheap motel. Leaving purple bruises on her neck, grabbing her by the hips and thrusting into her until the sweat was trickling down between his shoulder blades, and the heat on his cock felt wet and slippery through the latex of the condom.

 

A brunette against an alleyway’s wall in the dead of night, breaths steaming in the silence as the cold air threatened to rip his lungs from within. His hand smacking hard against the bricks, cold and humid, with every attempt of holding her weight up, balancing her, impaling her on his cock and hearing her whine and whimper and praise him, scraping her nails over his back and through his clothes, unable to mark him. Oh, and the noise she makes, when Sebastian thumps her fucking head back against the brick wall once she tries to suck a bruise to his neck.

The gurgling noises as his hand climbs to her neck, choking her to the point where her lips begin to puff, her entire mouth gasping, chest heaving, her groin inevitably tighter.

And Sebastian’s free hand is clinging like talons to her thigh, to where her skirt is gathered up to her waist, and her legs are covered only by ripped stockings. There, he’s digging digits that are surely bruising, and he’s gasping, heaving, panting like an animal by the time he’s coming into the unbearable heat of her cunt.

 

And once he’s done, he drops her. Lets her weight collapse, whether or not she’ll be able to catch herself.

Her hair is a mess and her make up is smeared all over the face that Moran had found attractive enough from across the bar.

Just a drink and the Basher Moran Special, that is all Sebastian could ever give a woman.

 

Limits; Sebastian’s life is bound by the limits set by a man who more often than not pays him no attention. Shows him no affection or care, but makes the restrictions all too clear.

 

Moran resents it. Alone in his apartment, resents it to the point where he makes himself ill. Glass of whiskey after glass of whiskey, until he’s puking his weight’s worth into the toilet bowl, retching until the muscles of his stomach are gelatine, and the inside of his trachea set afire. His head, a scrambled mess, but his mind somehow finds the thoughts of him again. Of his boss’ cold claws, and his deadset eyes.

 

And they stare at him.

 

God, they stare at him, from where his hips straddle Moran’s own, and the blond can’t catch his breath. Kisses, kisses and bites and nibbles, and Moran drowns beneath the waves that are Moriarty. Unpredictable and volatile and violent, and those women are a distraction, a bonfire, and James Moriarty is a supernova. He burns, he scorches everything he touches. The words he whispers sear Moran’s skin. Over and over, he mouths them into his neck, into his chest, into the skin behind his ear, and Moran’s hips are rough as they grind against Moriarty’s, as though his body had no other purpose than to please and be pleased.

 

His own voice is rough as he calls back, throaty and in grunts. What he’s saying, he doesn’t know. Words have long since failed a man like him, in situations like these, with a man as such. It’s Moriarty who does the sensible talking between them, his voice for once not deadpan, for once not condescending, for once alive and heated and wavering when Moran’s hands grab his hips and grind him down as he, himself, ruts up.

 

Speak, he’s allowed to speak in moments like these, when control has been lost in both of their limbs, their minds, like in unison, reason leaves their bodies in favour of heat. In favour of thirst. In favour of need.

 

On his back, the sweat builds against the sheets. It gets soaked up by the duvet, leaving a humid layer against his frame, like a shadow that causes shivers to race down his spine. Moriarty’s tongue is burning when the man laps at the roof of Moran’s mouth, when it tries to shove itself down Moran’s throat, and those cold hands roam Moran’s chest, tracing his scars, pinching his nipples, scratching more welts on his flesh.

 

Moriarty’s hands find his own, then, still clinging to the man’s hipbones. They find him in rough grips that shove his arms up above his head. His fingers feel the headboard, only for a second before his mind registers the metallic click of shackles locking too tight around him. Too tight, and he’s twisting his mouth away from Morairty’s, in a way he knows the boss doesn’t like, but he can’t help, all because, “That’s too fucking tight, boss,” With his green eyes on the cold metal, as though by staring at it enough, it would loosen.

“Red if you’re still.” Is more of a groan than a sentence, as Moriarty’s hips move in circles, and Moran’s attention is forced back to the heat still between them, and the way the head of his own cock is peeking out from underneath the waistband of his pants, drooling thick globs of clear liquid. “Purple and bleeding if you struggle.”

By now, Moran’s breaths are coming laboured, with great big gasps that catch at his throat. And he hates that Moriarty’s voice sounds still composed, when Moran can barely take the visual alone of James grinding against his cock, the way Moran can recall so many drunk, needy cheerleaders doing, back during his time at Oxford.

“Take your fucking trousers off--“ All dissolves into a twisted grunt that barely makes it through his throat.

“You’re not here to order me about, Moran.” And the hate is back in Moriarty’s voice, that iciness that matches so perfectly the temperature of his blade, and the way it bit into the skin of Moran’s ribcage. Two times he'd been caught off guard. Two times he's failed his own career, and Moriarty is too sharp not to have noticed. Two times he'll be punished, and the anticipation builds in his gut and at the back of his mind, making his skin tingle, his mouth dry, his heart bat at his ears. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.” It isn’t deep, ju-just the tip of the blade, but Moran’s teeth grit tight enough to send pangs through his gums, his toes curl, his head tosses back enough to expose his neck--Mercy. Like an animal begging forgiveness and baring his most vulnerable part.

Mercy, but Moriarty knows no such word, and the blade continues to move through the empty space between his bones, so slow, Sebastian’s lungs burn.

“P-Please, sir--“ And a twist of it, in the scarce space between ribs, Moriarty finds a way to twist it. “Please--let me--I want--“

“Hmm?” Seemingly uninterested, and Moran can hardly peel his eyes open to see the way in which Moriarty’s eyes are half-lidded, downcast and watching the blood slide down the curves of Moran’s body, and be drunk up with the same thirst that the duvet had taken to his sweat. “What is it that you want, Tiger?”

“Y-You, sir--“ Pathetic. Sometimes, the disgust hits him instantly. Sometimes, the heat is too much, and the begging only heightens the anticipation, the arousal, and his cock throbs harder in his pants at the thought of Moriarty not--being interested in him, but only in the way his blood coagulates. Begging is means to an end, means to an end, means to an end, and the end is all Moran needs, because his entire body is buzzing with it. “Your cock, Mo-Moriarty, please--“

 

Panic. A surge of cold panic that races through him, through his shoulders, through his chest, through his gut, and swarms there, overwhelming, overpowering, and he has to bite his tongue not to let that pathetic whimper crawl past his throat to his lips.

Moriarty is moving away, and it’s a second before Moran can process the lack of heat for what it is. 

And then, it’s like a match being flung into a barrel of petrol, the way Moran lights up.

 

Moriarty is moving, and his eyes flicker up to meet Sebastian’s with that glint of mischief. Then, he’s kneeling between Moran’s legs, and it’s instinct, anticipation, adrenaline, lust and that underlining, paralysing fear that makes Moran’s legs draw up, feet flat on the bed and knees in the air.

 

Cold, still. Moriarty’s fingers are cold still, but his hands are slow as they grab hold of Moran’s pants. Slowly, too slowly, they tug down. The waistband clings to Moran’s cock for as long as it can, soaked almost in humidity, clings until it can no longer.

And the way Sebastian’s cock bounces back up to his stomach, to lay flat against him and continue drooling over his abdomen makes Moriarty smirk. In that twisted, crooked way, his eyes too dark and too heavy at the sight of him.

 

Moran isn’t sure if his body was trembling before.

But it definitely is when Moriarty’s tongue darts out to lick his own lips.


End file.
